Hope for Heroes
by Richefic
Summary: In the final moments of "The Great Game" Holmes hopes he will have the chance to tell his flatmate that he was wrong. Heroes do exist after all and the one in front of him is called Dr John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - I am actually Steven Moffat in disguise. Oh wait, no hang on a minute. He only wrote three episodes (or four if you count the un-aired pilot)

AN - Many thanks to everyone who has fav'd or alerted my work. Glad you are enjoying it. Much appreciation all those who'd reviewed - it really makes the time and effort that goes into crafting a story seem like its worthwhile.

* * *

1. _Hero – a man of exceptional nobility, courage and strength._

As Moriarty had taken his leave Sherlock had thought it was over, at least for now. They both had. The relief he had felt as he had stripped that ugly parka and even more destable explosives off Watson's body with quick, urgent, hands had made him feel almost light-headed.

"Alright, are you _alright_?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, Sherlock, _Sherlock."_

John's response had been slightly stunned. In part, Sherlock was sure because of his own narrow escape, but no doubt at least somewhat due to Holmes own overtly emotional response to the situation. The single, sick, _split second _of horrified disbelief he had felt when he thought John might just have been their bomber had swiftly transformed itself into a much deeper dread when he realised that John Watson, doctor, soldier, flatmate _friend_, was utterly at the criminal's mercy.

* * *

"_So, we're just going to the cinema?" John asked, as he shrugged into his coat. "This is really simply two people who like each other going out and having fun? This isn't anything at all to do with a case?"_

"_As I would have presumed that even you could deduce from my most recent activities I don't presently have a case. I haven't had a case for days and days." Sherlock responded sourly. "I've been so utterly bored."_

"_Really?" John cast an eye over the still gently smouldering remains of the burnt out microwave, the clam shell sabre sticking out of the wall, the copy of "Greatest Unsolved Murders of all Time, (a gift from an anxious Mrs Hudson) and the full suit of medieval armour which had been meticulously taken apart and now lay scattered in its component part s all around the sofa. "I would never have guessed that."_

_Sherlock blinked as he realised he was actually being _teased. _People didn't usually tease him. Or care to spend a great deal of time with him really. Looking around at the level of debris littering the flat he realised that he must have been even more difficult to live with than usual over the last few days and apart from his rather vocal and pointed insistence that Sherlock wasn't going to be doing his experiments on the impact of maggots on decomposing human flesh in the bath tub, John had really been rather amenable._

"_I suppose I could tidy up a bit." He offered by way of conciliation._

_Sherlock picked up one of the pieces of armour and looked around for a moment, realised that he didn't have the slightest idea what to do with it, before inspiration struck and he put it back down in a slightly different place, feeling really rather proud of himself. After all, that was what people always did when they tided up, wasn't it? _

"_Come on," For some reason, John looked very much like he was trying not to laugh at him. "At this rate, we're going to miss the start of the film. The reviews have been fantastic but I have to say I didn't think it would be really your cup of tea?"_

_Sherlock knew that John expected him to response with some long and detailed explanation, about how he had been attracted by the detailed historical content, or the cutting edge science, maybe the sheer technical brilliance of the special effects, or the innovative cinematography, but as he slipped on his long flowing grey coat and wound his silk scarf around his neck he never contemplated giving any answer that was anything other than the absolute truth. After all, that was the whole point of this exercise._

"_I thought you might like it."_

_The look of surprise on John's face as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped slightly, was followed gratifyingly quickly by a light flush of pleasure across his cheeks and a slightly shy smile that grew rather wider as Sherlock held his gaze and John realised the other man was totally sincere in his response. Feeling his own chest warm slightly Sherlock smiled back feeling immensely satisfied with the way his experiment had borne out his hoped for hypothesis._

_At the time, he had thought that with practice he might get even better at this friendship lark. _

Now, he cursed the fact that his attempts to protect John, by waiting until he was safely out of the way before he issued his challenge to their bomber, had been so totally amateurish. How could _he_ ever have been so stupid, stupid, _stupid_? Of course, any bomber who was prepared to risk the lives of a random woman, an unknown man, a blind woman and then a small child would be looking to raise the stakes and ultimately target someone who inhabited Sherlock's own world.

_Five_ pips.

Earlier that evening John had been angry at him, _disappointed _at his apparent lack of empathy for the other victims. The very idea that he could have left any one of them wired up to a jacket full of explosives for one single solitary second longer than absolutely necessary had appalled his flatmate. Sherlock had tried to explain the delay was worthwhile because the other evidence he had been able to uncover in the meantime put them one up on the mysterious bomber. Granted part of Holmes also knew that he was motivated at least as much by the thrill of the game as any desire to save lives.

Perhaps that was why he had responded so caustically.

"_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes, don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." _

Well, he had been partly right about that. He was certainly no hero.

But John Watson was an entirely different matter. Sherlock should have realised that long before what John has tried to do _for him_. What he had fully intended to go through with _for his sake_. As soon as Sherlock had seen Watson throw himself at Moriarty in order to incapacitate him and give Holmes a chance to run, being fully committed to sacrificing everything he was simply so that Sherlock and the countless other innocent lives that Moriarty might in time to come cast his dark shadow across could all live and thrive, he had known that he had been wrong all along. And that was unforgivable because it wasn't as if John Watson hadn't given him more than enough clues.

* * *

_It was the end of another case. Sherlock was feeling that delicious buzz that came with successfully putting all the pieces together and was basking in the utter satisfaction of being right, again, he knew it wouldn't last, that feeling never did. But right now he was feeling positively energised and full of bonhomie. _Now_ he could eat._

"_So, dinner?" He turned to look across at John who as usual had fallen into step beside him. "What do you fancy? Maybe, Chinese, Italian, Indian, there's a Mongolian Restaurant not far from here I've been meaning to try..?"_

"_Not for me thanks."_

"_Oh," Sherlock stopped dead. That shortness of tone coming from his very own blogger was somewhat unexpected. John usually took as almost much pleasure in his successes and achievements as he did. He looked closely at his friend's hunched shoulders and closed expression and came to a realisation. "I've made you late for your date with Sarah."_

"_Sherlock, it's almost 4am. I already called Sarah to cancel hours ago," John answered testily."And now I just want to go home and go to bed."_

"_You're angry with me." Sherlock realised._

"_No, Sherlock. I'm not angry. I'm bloody furious. You sacred me," John pointed out sharply. "I saw you following our murder out across that steel girder and it frightened the bloody life out of me."_

_Sherlock mentally reviewed the events of the last few hours. His brain latched onto the moment when John's face had frozen with horror, his expression deathly pale and his eyes wide in disbelief as he shouted at the top of his lungs. The high winds that caused the steel girder to sway just slightly in the winds had whipped away Watson's words before they could be heard, but Holmes had easily read his lips and know what his flatmate was trying to say. Even so, he stepped out onto the steel girder without a thought for the lethal drop onto the bare concrete below. _

"_Fear is a very negative emotion," Sherlock now pointed out with the kind of superior air that both fascinated Watson and made him wan to deck the other man. "Place that girder one foot off the ground almost everyone will cross it. Raise it fifty feet off the ground and how many will even attempt it? And yet all that's changed is their fear."_

"_Fear also keeps you alive. Puts your senses on high alert, gives you the adrenalin to move quickly when you need to," John pointed out, rather forcefully in Sherlock's opinion. "It stops you from taking totally needless, un-necessary risks."_

"_It was a calculated risk." Sherlock corrected._

"_It was a bloody stupid thing to do! Didn't we already talk about not putting your life at risk to prove a hypothetical hypothesis?" Frustrated at being unable to successfully get his point across John scrubbed at his face and tried to calm down, hoping to find another way to make the consulting detective see reason. "Have you ever actually been really truly afraid?" _

_Holmes paused as he gave that concept due consideration. John knew it was testament to their growing friendship that Sherlock was even prepared to entertain his concerns. He wondered what the other man would say if he told him that that by not giving him his answer straight away Sherlock had already provided his response. Once you had felt gut wrenching total fear it wasn't something you could easily forget. _

"_I've never been in a situation where I couldn't see a way out," Sherlock admitted finally. "Successfully, obviously, as I still live to tell the tale. There's always something your opponent has forgotten, a mistake they've made, something which gives you the advantage."_

"_You _really_ don't know what its like to be scared do you?" John's tone was decidedly odd Sherlock thought. It had a sort of 'strangled' quality to it._

"_No, not really," He raised a cool brow."Was that not the answer you were looking for?"_

"_Well good for you," John had commented caustically. "I truly hope you never find out."_

_That had been the first time they had argued so vociferously that John had taken himself off to Sarah's and not come home until the following day. When he had returned, by mutual (unspoken) agreement neither of them had said anything about the night before. Sherlock knew that John had hoped he'd learned something from the exchange. But at the time he hadn't been at all sure exactly what that was supposed to be._

_Now, he did, far too well.

* * *

_

Wanting to make sure that any threat from Moriarty was really gone he had stalked outside. Only to realise as soon as exited the pool area that what he actually _needed_ to be closer to John to ensure he was safe. These conflicting emotions were already quite unsettling enough, when he re-entered the pool to see that John Watson, one of the strongest people he had ever met, had collapsed against the wall he felt furious, concerned, guilty, _helpless._ How distastefully ironic that none of this would have happened if he had kept John close instead of isolating him under the guise of protecting him.

"Are you okay?" John's voice asked.

"Me?" Sherlock hadn't been expecting that. His errors, his arrogance, his ego, had all led to this, had led to Watson's kidnap, his less than salubrious treatment for some considerable time at Moriarty's hands, none of which Sherlock wanted to dwell on, then the prospect of his imminent demise and yet still the other man's first truly coherent thought was for his welfare. Was that what friendship was truly about? "Yeah, I'm fine, fine."

He knew he ought to say something else. Anything to recognise that most astonishing thing John had just attempted.

"That thing that you did, that you offered to do, that was um .. good."

It wasn't the most eloquent thing he had ever said. The words themselves didn't begin to convey half of what he actually wanted to say. Which for a man like Sherlock Holmes who lived by his wit and his razor sharp vocabulary was a more than unusual occurrence, he wasn't normally one ever to be lost for words. But it was certainly the most _heartfelt _sentence he had ever uttered. He hoped that counted for something.

He had tried to do his best after all.

"_I need a favour, Mycroft," Sherlock could not believe how awkward and alien those words sounded coming from his own mouth. "You can see it as part repayment for all those dreadful knighthoods you keep trying to give me."_

"_And why pray would I do that?" Mycroft queried loftily._

"_Because I'm asking," Sherlock fixed his elder brother with an unwavering stare. "And I_ never_ do that."_

"_This matter must be _extremely_ important to you." Mycroft surmised. _

"_John is having some difficulties with his Army pension. The War Office or whatever one is supposed to call it in these days of government restructuring are making some kind of fuss that he's not allowed his full entitlement if he is co-habiting with someone else. John is too much of a gentleman to tell them what to do with their petty bureaucracy and too much of a stubborn idiot to let me simply redress the balance. I need you to sort it out." _

"_You really are quite inordinately fond of him, aren't you?" Mycroft realised._

"_Is your little spy network so woefully underfunded these days that I actually have to be the one to point out to you that John Watson has already saved my life on more than one occasion since we made our acquaintance?" Sherlock scoffed lightly. "If that means nothing to you, perhaps you could at least spare a thought for Mummy."_

"_Ah yes," Mycroft nodded. "I do hear tell that Dr Watson is really quite a remarkable shot and not at all squeamish at threatening your enemies for your sake. So, assuming that I might be in a position to help what will I receive for this assistance?"_

"_Oh I don't know, let me see," Sherlock let his head loll back. "Shall we keep it in the family, how about my first born son?"_

"_I would really rather prefer something a little more tangible." Mycroft sniffed._

"_Then I__ imagine you'll want me to solve some tedious little problem or other for you in the future," Sherlock huffed. "Which I'll agree to if you absolutely insist."_

"_More than one tedious problem, I think."_

"_Why?" Sherlock rapidly straightened up as his eyes narrowed. "I'm only asking _you_ for one favour." _

"_Ah, but the other tiny bit of co-operation is in return for my not embarrassing the good Doctor by telling him that you had a hand in helping him solve his finacial difficulties," Mycroft smiled thinly. "That _is_ what you _want_ isn't it?"_

"_And you wonder why I never buy you a Christmas present." Sherlock sulked.

* * *

_

"I'm glad nobody saw that," John's words jerked him out of his memories to the present, although the context left him feeling slightly wrong footed, encouraging the other man to elaborate. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people will talk."

In the circumstances, it was really quite droll. How did such an apparently average man acquire the heart of a lion?

"People do little else."

Finally, Sherlock allowed himself to relax, a relieved grin spreading across his face as he caught John's eye. His friend grinned back, reflecting his own relief as he began to lever himself off the wall. Sherlock's mind had already fast forwarded to ensuring his friend ate something nourishing and got some rest before he returned to focusing his energies on tracking down Moriarty when the door clanged and he knew _exactly_ what was coming.

Catching John's eye, he saw understanding, determination and a degree of resignation. Sherlock knew what he had to do. He realised that he had no choice in the matter. But he wished that there was more time. There were things that he wanted to say. There were words which he needed to ensure John heard. Because the world's only consulting detective had been so very wrong. He might not be a hero, even by the dismal standards of a Hollywood blockbuster, he had failed to save the day.

But Dr John Watson was the stuff that leading men were made of. More than anything Sherlock wished for the chance to tell him what had been so glaringly obvious all along..

Even as he took aim and set his sights on the discarded heap of explosives he hoped there would still be enough time to do exactly that.


	2. Chapter 2

Nobility

a. A class of persons distinguished by high rank or birth.

b. The state or quality of being exalted in character

* * *

_It was a testament to the bond the two men had developed, as much forged by moments of shared domesticity, as adrenalin fuelled chases across London that a single glance was enough for John to understand what Sherlock was planning as he turned to face Moriarty. Sherlock never had any doubt that Watson would be prepared to follow his lead, if there was any chance it might save Holmes' life or the lives of Moriarty's future victims. Despite Sherlock's own privileged background, the soldier was unquestionably the most noble person he had ever met._

_He didn't think the one time he had told him that really counted._

Outside the rain was coming down more heavily now, the thick clouds causing the living room to be cast into long shadows, even though it wasn't even mid-day yet. Too absorbed in what he was reading to be bothered to get up and turn on the lights, Sherlock dug around one handed in the sofa until he found his maglite, used his teeth to twist the top and provided illumination, all without loosing his place. He didn't bother to look up as he heard foot steps on the stairs.

"I put the rubbish out." John's voice said, when nothing was forthcoming he continued a little more pointedly. "And before that I cleaned the bathroom, washed the dishes and made some attempt to clean the kitchen floor."

"How very noble of you." Sherlock drawled, without interrupting his reading.

"A little help would be nice." John pointed out.

"Later. "

"You could hoover the carpet?"

"Busy."

"Sherlock," John cleared a space on the kitchen table and spread some newspaper. "You're reading the phone book, what can possibly be so important about that? I shouldn't have to do everything around here. What did you last flatmate die of anyway?"

"Botulism," Sherlock replied, glancing up to take in the expression on John's face. "I told him not to eat the potato salad. I was using it for an experiment."

"You are kidding me?" John's words held just a trace of doubt, as he fetched his shoes over. "_Sherlock_?"

"You're polishing your shoes," Sherlock perked up as he realised, instantly casting aside the phone book, as if it had never held any attraction for him. He bounded up and retrieved his shoes from where he had left them under the coffee table and placed them besides John's."Do mine will you?

As he flopped onto the sofa and turned to face the wall he paid little heed to the scrape of the chair on the floor as Watson stood up, but as his footsteps headed towards the window, Sherlock spun over onto his back, tracking John's movements as he calmly opened the window, dropped Holmes shoes out onto the pavement below, shut the window and made his way back to the kitchen table where he sat down and went back to polishing his shoes, all without saying a word.

Sherlock's face momentarily creased into a frown. Watson neither looked up nor commented as he leapt up and padded down the stairs, even though he usually tried to prevent him from going out in his pyjamas or at least remind him to put something on his bare feet. As the front door slammed and there was a moment of silence, he kept polishing. Another slam and feet pounded back up the stairs, looking a little dishevelled Holmes pulled out another chair slammed his shoes onto the table and sat down.

"So, what do I do?"

"What?" John looked up, in genuine surprise.

"I imagine it must be the Army training," Sherlock mused, as he picked one of John's shoes up and examined it, as if it would provide the answers he sought. Knowing Sherlock he supposed it quite possibly might. "You really can see your face in these. So, where do I start?"

All the ire and irritation melted out of John as he realised that Sherlock was actually asking him to teach him how to do something. The thought was oddly touching. He decided not to mention that it was actually his father who had taught him, whereas Sherlock had probably relied on a succession of nannies and housekeepers growing up.

"First put some polish on the cloth here and rub it in using small circles," He instructed. As they were working companionably, John glanced across at Sherlock amused by the look of intense concentration on his face as he performed the simple task. "I could teach you how to use the washing machine too, if you like."

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

* * *

_To be fair, with his saggy grey jumper and self-effacing manner_ nobility_ was not really a characteristic that sprang to mind on first meeting John Watson. Only the military bearing and haircut gave a hint to the qualities lurking below. Watson tended to describe himself as an "ordinary bloke". It was true that their backgrounds were worlds apart._

John seemed unusually quiet as he looked around their murder victim's bedsit. Sherlock frowned slightly as he momentarily diverted his energies from solving the crime to ascertaining what might be bothering him. The small room was almost bare, a few toiletries by the sink, a half open suitcase on a chair, a couple of pairs of shoes. There didn't seem to be anything which might account for his mood. In fact, there didn't seem to be much of anything at all.

Oh, of course.

"It's not much is it to show for a life?" As he met his eyes John confirmed his suspicions and Sherlock knew he was thinking of the one large suitcase and medium holdall which was all he had moved into the flat. "Poor sod."

"A man's achievements aren't defined by his possessions, John," Sherlock pointed out. "My family owns a good deal of the south of England and most of my ancestors were drunkards or imbeciles."

"Really?" Watson gave him a curious look. "Do you have a title then?"

"I think Mummy might be an Honourable something or other," Sherlock reflected. "Her father was a Lord. It was generally felt that she had married beneath her when she eloped with Father. Does that bother you?"

"The title or the eloping?" John queried, pleased to see he had hit the right note when Sherlock's quizzical expression was replaced by a lightening fast grin. "No, not all, I mean its obvious, that you come from money, the way you speak, the clothes you wear, the hand stitched leather shoes," John stopped as he realised that Sherlock was watching him with the kind of rapt fascination a Hawk might reserve for his prey and he remembered exactly who he was talking to. "Sorry, sorry, I wouldn't usually do that. Forget I said anything."

"No please, do go on," Sherlock encouraged. "How do you know that I actually came from money and hadn't just amassed a large fortune, cultivated the facade of an English gentleman and then employed a voice coach?"

"Well for one thing you just told me."

"Good, John, good," Sherlock nodded his approval. "Never overlook the obvious, now what else?"

"Well, your cufflinks for one, they're antique, probably passed down the generations, you could have brought them but they have your initials, _SH_ that would have taken some searching whereas I'm assuming Sherlock is a family name. You're also a grown man who still calls his mother Mummy which tends to reflect a certain socio-economic group. You get correspondence from the Harrow Association so I'm assuming you went to school there," John hesitated but decided he might as well plunge on. "And then there's Mycroft."

"Mycroft does tend to take himself rather seriously." Sherlock agreed. "The man is almost a caricature of himself."

"You're different from him."

"We must be thankful for small mercies," Sherlock flashed him a grin. "Mycroft does so enjoy his little spy games and government intrigues, not to mention all those cocktail parties and embassy balls. I don't know how he can bear it. I tell you John if I had to spend all my time dealing with pompous idiots like that Lestrade would have considerably more murders on his hands. Nobility is hugely overrated.

"If you say so," John had commented mildly. "I can't say I know much about it."

* * *

_Even in their present circumstances that memory almost made Sherlock smile. Watson might not have the breeding associated with the historical origin of English nobility. But his character and actions epitomised everything the word stood for. Even where Sherlock was concerned. Perhaps especially where Sherlock was concerned. Holmes was under no illusion that he was an easy person to befriend. But Watson had done so remarkably willingly._

It had been past midnight and starting to snow quite heavily by the time they were finishing up at the crime scene. Things had taken much longer than they should have done due to Anderson's interference and Donovan's petty interruptions. For the last half an hour, Sherlock had gradually become aware of the scowl on John's face getting darker and darker and his mood growing increasingly foul. But whenever the consulting detective had caught his flatmate's eye, or solicited his opinion on some medical detail or other the other man had appeared remarkably receptive and good humoured.

"If we're going to keep doing this I really need to invest in a better coat, something warmer, I think fur lined would be very nice, maybe even a hood." John smiled ruefully.

"A hood?" Sherlock gave him an old fashioned look.

"What's wrong with hoods? They're extremely practical." John defended his fashion sense.

"And indescribably ugly." Sherlock scoffed.

Whatever, John might have said in response to that was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. Belatedly Holmes recalled that they had left their dinner untouched when they had responded to Lestrade's urgent call. Wherever possible Homes tried to repay his flatmate's stalwart efforts to ensure that he did not survive on caffeine and nicotine alone by trying to remember that Watson liked to eat and sleep on a semi-regular basis.

"I'm almost done," It was as good as an apology to anyone who really knew him. "How does Chinese sound?"

"Sounds good," Watson allowed. "But you take your time. I'm fine here."

"You're cold. You're wet. Your left shoe is leaking slightly soaking your sock in freezing cold water. You haven't eaten since breakfast and your shoulder is starting to seize up," Sherlock retorted with a slightly mocking smile. "Did I miss anything out?"

"A few things, actually," John said cryptically. "Since you ask."

"Really?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes sharply at the implied challenge. This was always fun. "What sort of things exactly?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll figure it out." Watson was deliberately enigmatic.

It didn't take long, once he set his mind to it. It started with the small things. The grudging fashion in which Watson moved out of Anderson's way as the man stumbled around the crime scene, the monosyllabic manner in which he answered Donovan's incessant questions as she tried to pry information out of him which could be used as ammunition against Holmes. Although, that was by no means the end of it.

"So, apparently you're an ex-Army doctor?" Donovan gave Watson a disdainful look as he stepped up beside him, obviously having decided that anyone in Sherlock's vicinity was fair game simply by association. "Couldn't hack it on the front line? Need to get your thrills trailing around after the psychopath?"

"Highly functioning sociopath," Watson corrected. "As I do believe he has already told you. And I could handle the front line just fine, thank you very much. Right up to the point until I actually got shot."

"You don't look much like a soldier to me." Anderson scoffed.

"Don't I? Funny, I thought Forensic Scientists were trained to be observant. Sherlock spotted it right off. One of the first things he noticed about me in fact. Something to do with the haircut, the way I stood, the suntan from Afghanistan and the _bullet_ wound."

Sherlock had to give his flatmate a little credit for dramatic licence. He hadn't been sure about the bullet wound to Watson's left shoulder until slightly later in their acquaintance. But the rest of it was almost poetic in its justice. He almost wished he could see Anderson's face but if he turned around or gave any other sign of awareness it would assuredly spoil John's fun.

"I take it you are a genuinely _qualified_ Doctor?" Anderson's tone strongly suggested he thought Watson had brought his medical degree off the internet. "Where did you train?"

"Barts." Watson supplied simply. "How about you?"

Now Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing out loud as Anderson spluttered and stalked away. Watson never bothered to hide his browsing history on his laptop and Sherlock found the password so ridiculously easy to crack, (although some of John's recent efforts had been _decidedly _more creative). Still he had been mildly curious to see his flatmate had been wasting his time looking up Anderson. Now it all became clear. The Forensic Scientist's alma mater in no way compared to the prestigious teaching Hospital.

"Still haven't gone out and found yourself a hobby then?" Donovan's strident tones grated on Sherlock as she began to badger Watson in her turn. "Surely anything's got to be better than hanging out with the Freak?"

"That's pretty rich coming from a person whose only extra curricular activity appears to be spending time with Anderson," John retorted smoothly. "I would feel sorry for you but frankly I think you deserve each other."

_Touché _Sherlock hid his smile as he complimented his flatmate in his thoughts. Anyone who dismissed Watson as a mild mannered doctor and forgot about the soldier at his core did so at their peril. It was one of the things Sherlock liked most about him. John might be a decent human being with an irritating habit of expecting the best from those around him. But he had also held his own in the heat and dust of war and had _commanded _men who would eat people as superficial as Donovan for breakfast.

"You've been spending too much time with the Freak," Donovan's expression turned spiteful. "You're starting to sound like him."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Neither Watson's words nor his tone gave an inch of ground.

"Donovan," DI Lestrade interrupted, before the confrontation between the two could escalate. "Don't you have something to be getting on with?"

Sherlock was already mentally going back to tying up the lose ends at the crime scene, supremely confident that he had correctly deduced that the other things which had been souring Watson's mood had been the attitudes of Anderson and Donovan. He could hardly blame the man. On the contrary, he admired his good judgement. Satisfied that he had successfully solved the challenge he was about to offer up his answer when he recalled _exactly_ what Watson had said.

"_A few things, actually," John said cryptically. "Since you ask."_

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he considered that. A few usually referred to three things, i.e. one more than two, which meant he had missed something and that, would never do. Extending each one of his senses to try and ascertain what the missing piece in the puzzle might be he was nonetheless somewhat surprised when his sharp hearing caught the decidedly irate tone Watson was using to address Lestrade.

"Why do you let them get away with that?" John demanded.

"Hmm, sorry, what?" Lestrade sounded distracted.

"Anderson and Donovan, the way they talk about Sherlock, the way they talk to Sherlock. It's not right. They're your under your command. Can't you do something about it?"

"He's never complained."

"He shouldn't have to," Watson sounded offended. "It's verbal harassment. Doesn't Scotland Yard have policies about persecution in the work place?"

"In case, you haven't noticed, Sherlock Holmes isn't technically employed by us." Lestrade excused. "We don't pay him."

"That's your answer? You're hiding behind a technically? He works with you in a _professional _capacity. You said yourself you're desperate for his help. Is it too much to ask that you make sure that your people extend to him a _professional_ courtesy?"

"Are you quite sure you're not sleeping with him?" Lestrsade queried.

"Because that is the only reason I could possibility have for wanting you to treat him like a human being?" John's tone was ice cold.

"No, no, of course not," Lestrade was quick to correct. "It's just you must have noticed that Donovan and Anderson's reaction is the more usual one. He's a clever but he's also an arrogant git. He likes to get people's backs up and he gives as good as he gets."

"That's true," John acknowledged. "But those two are the ones who start it. And if you want Sherlock to be the good man you hope he might one day become, don't you think it would be an idea to start treating him like it?"

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, as the two of them finally took their leave of the crime scene. "That was good of you."

"It was fine, I told you I didn't mind waiting," John shrugged. Sherlock realised he was doing that _thing_ again where he pretended to mis-understand when he knew very well exactly what Holmes was talking about. "You were the one who was doing all the hard work."

"Not for the waiting, John." He corrected in a firm tone.

"Oh, alright, um, then for what exactly?"

John's words sounded innocent enough, but his expression crinkled slightly like it always did when he had been caught doing something he wasn't exactly ashamed of but that he wasn't at all sure that Sherlock would appreciate.

Sherlock waited until he had flagged down a cab and was halfway into its depths before replying so that the words came out slightly muffled. Watson knew that there was absolutely no point in asking him to repeat himself and to be honest he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go there. Still, as he settled himself into the cab and looked out of the window, a small smile settled across his features. He was pretty sure he _had _heard correctly.

"For defending my honour."

Tbc ..


	3. Chapter 3

AN - Just to say although Prince Harry (third in line to the British Throne) did see active service in Afghanistan until the press found out - my OC is exactly that - a work of total fiction.

Courage

_The quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face danger etc

* * *

_

_John Watson was no ordinary man. Sherlock had seen that at their very first meeting. Even so, the man had continued to surprise him with his insight, his attitude and his concern for others. The fact that he had applied that same level of concern to Holmes himself, being all too wiling to sacrifice his life for his sake, was both amazing and terrifying. To hold the life of one he cared for in his hands was not a feeling Sherlock relished. Much as he hated to admit it. Mycroft had been right all along.

* * *

_

John Watson tugged uncomfortably at the jacket of his tuxedo. Looking around at the high ceilings, marble floors and sparkling chandeliers he almost wished that he had taken Sherlock up on his offer to pay a visit to his tailor. He hadn't needed to wear black tie since a regimental dinner before he had left for Afghanistan and he hadn't realised the damn thing had become such an awkward fit. Surrounded by a room full of glamorous cocktail dresses and silk cummerbunds he felt decidedly out of place.

"Tell me again why we're here." He murmured.

"Because Mycroft made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Sherlock took a pair of champagne flutes from a silver tray offered by a passing waiter and handed one to John. "So, we may as well make the best of it."

"You don't usually have a problem saying no to him."

"Speak of the devil." Sherlock observed.

Following the direction of his line of sight John noticed Mycroft making his way through the assembled company towards them.

"Sherlock, Dr Watson, so delighted you could make it." He greeted them.

"John, please."

"You didn't actually give me much of a choice," Sherlock muttered sourly. "You _know_ how much I hate these Embassy things."

"Nonsense, dear brother, there are people you should meet, contacts you should make. You can't spend all your time between murders and such like holed up in that garret of yours watching dreadful television shows. No offence intended, John."

"None taken," John allowed. "In fact, I think I should probably be thanking you, for sorting out that business with the courts. The ASBO?"

"Now why would you assume that was me?" Mycroft affected an air of bemusement. "I am sure that the Metropolitan Police are an extremely competent and thorough organisation, which is perfectly capable of coming to the conclusion that a fine upstanding citizen such as yourself could not possibly be involved in an activity like graffiti. Not to mention, that Sherlock does such sterling work for our boys in blue, surely he would be far better placed to render _his_ assistance?"

Beside him John noticed Sherlock's expression darken as his brother's slightly barbed point hit home. It was fair to say that Watson had been infuriated that Sherlock had been so dismissive of his arrest and the subsequent charges. When he had received notification that all charges had been dropped he had assumed that Sherlock via Lestrade had had a hand in matters. But his flatmate's total oblivion of the matter had suggested otherwise.

* * *

_Relief and gratitude vied with irritation as John made his way up the stairs, loosening his tie as he went. Entering the living room he realised that Sherlock was back from wherever he had taken himself off that morning when John was still in his pyjamas. _

"_You could have said something." John greeted him._

"_I'm sure I would have done if it was important," Sherlock looked up, from where he was lying on the sofa, twisting his head around curiously as he took in John's suit and tie. "You've been out."_

"_Yes, of course I've been out. I went to…," John trailed off, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at his flatmate. "You don't know where I've been do you?"_

Instantly, Holmes' expression changed as he began to catalogue every inch of his flatmate's appearance, looking for clues. To his surprise, Watson scowled at him and moved swiftly out of his line of sight.

"_No, just _tell_ me where I've been."_

"_I thought you liked what I did." Sherlock pouted._

"_That's not the point," John protested. He sighed and his next words were edged with disappointment as he carried on speaking almost to himself as he came around to look Sherlock in the face. "You really don't know do you? I've only been talking to you about it for the past week and then today when they dropped the charges I assumed that you had.." He stopped, pressing his lips together in a manner that looked less like irritation and more like hurt. "Never mind, I'm going out."_

_Somewhat perplexed, Sherlock sat bolt upright, ready to point out that Watson had only just got in. He had been hoping he might make tea But John was already heading down the stairs. Flopping back, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to replay the last few minutes in his head. When he heard footsteps on the stairs he hoped it might be John returning. But the tread was too measured. Sherlock huffed out a breath and wondered if he could get Mycroft to make tea._

"_You know if you are going to require the good doctor to trail in your wake around London you really should take better care of him."_

"_What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked testily. I'm busy."_

"_Obviously," Mycroft observed blandly, looking his supine form up and down with a reproving eye. "Far too busy, it would appear, to attend at the Magistrates Court this morning." _

_Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet around as, all at once, his brain made the connection between the court, the suit, the charges and John's abrupt departure. John had been reminding him for days that his court date was coming up. That his 'little friend' could own up any time and something about an ASBO. Sherlock had filed it all away under matters not requiring his attention until the case was closed. Utterly confident in his own ability to make it all just go away he had fully intended to call Lestrade before Tuesday rolled around._

_He just hadn't realised it _was already_Tuesday. _

"_You had the charges dropped." Sherlock realised._

"_It really wasn't that difficult," Mycroft looked at his nails. "Dr Watson is a man of previous good character, a former soldier and now a GP, a veritable pillar of the community. Given the CCTV footage of the incident it wasn't hard to convince the parties concerned it was merely a mis-understanding. A simple thank you will suffice."_

"_Thank you." Sherlock managed._

_As much as the words cost him, Sherlock knew he was indebted to Mycroft. His thoughtlessness had already strained his relationship with John. If the man had ended up with a criminal record their friendship might have been permanently damaged. That didn't stop him resenting that his brother's interference was necessary. He should have been the one to come to John's aid. _

"_Flowers are always nice," Mycroft offered blandly, reading his mind. "Or chocolates?"_

"_With all the resources of Her Majesty's Secret Service at your disposal is that really the best you can come up with?" Sherlock was cutting._

"_I also bought this," Mycroft took a green-topped pint of semi-skimmed milk from his briefcase and placed it on the table. "I think you will find Dr Watson prefers his tea to be a warm light brown colour, the water just off the boil, the tea bag gently squashed just once against the side of the cup rather than steeped and a generous splash of milk. Perhaps a couple of those shortbread biscuits Mrs Hudson made this morning. Oh by the way there is a reception for the New French Ambassador tomorrow night. I trust both you and Dr Watson will be able to attend?"_

"_What happened to 'a simple thank you will suffice?" Sherlock scowled at his retreating back.

* * *

_

"Sherlock was rather pre-occupied at the time." John observed now. "And now he's here."

Sherlock's lips twitched in something like amusement that his flatmate had so effortlessly worked out the connection between the two events. John Watson would never be his intellectual equal. But the man had had insights that continually astonished and amazed him.

"Very astute, John," Mycroft complimented him. "Well, somebody has to take care of your interests when my brother is gallivanting around town and I was only too happy to help. Now do come along, there is someone here I want both of you, to meet."

"Mycroft if this is another one of your attempts to.," Sherlock began, only to frown when he saw John's expression change as he looked in the direction Mycroft was leading them, his eyes had gone very wide and his face was decidedly paler. He actually stopped walking and looked more awkward than Holmes had ever seen him. Sherlock put a hand on his arm. "John, what's wrong?"

"Sherlock," John spoke very carefully. "That blonde haired man Mycroft is heading towards, do you know who he is?"

"Of course, I know who he is. It's hardly the first time I've met a member of the Royal family," Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please don't tell me that you are going to get all star struck about it. It will make Mycroft even more unbearably smug than usual."

"No," John drew the word out a little. "That's really not it."

Sherlock only had the chance to give John a swift, narrow eyed look, before the Mycroft and the Prince were upon them. As he was introduced, Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. The soldier who had met every challenge Sherlock had put before him with an almost manic grin, looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if he would rather be anywhere else than here. Sherlock wondered exactly what Mycroft was up to and whether this time he might just actually have to kill him for it.

"And this is my brother's colleague and flat mate, Dr John Watson," Mycroft smiled. "Dr Watson, I'm sure you'll remember him sire."

"I don't think John is the type to be much impressed by titles, Mycroft," The Prince interrupted. "If my memory serves his exact words were "I don't care if you're the bloody Queen of Sheba if you try walking out of here on that leg again I'll shoot you myself."

"Yes well," John looked embarrassed. "You had a compound fracture of the Tiba. The human body's not exactly designed to work normally under those conditions. You'll excuse me if my bedside manner was a little lacking. People _were _shooting at us at the time."

"You served with each other in Afghanistan?" Sherlock stiffened slightly.

"Ahem," Mycroft gave an affected little cough. "I'm not sure that we should go into too much detail gentlemen. There is the small matter of National Security."

"Let's just say our paths crossed," John allowed, obviously itching to get away. "I'm glad to see the leg's doing well. Please, don't let us keep you from your other guests."

"Nonsense, It's damned good to see you again," The prince, obviously not on his first glass of Champagne took not the slightest notice of John's discomfort. "I heard you were invalided home, rotten luck. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"Oh you know." John hedged.

"He's been working with me as a medical consultant in my investigations for Scotland Yard, he has been a very great help, couldn't do it without him," Sherlock put in, effusively.

To his surprise, John's stunned expression at the ringing endorsement, swiftly morphed into thin-lipped displeasure, his finger's tightening a little too much around the stem of his glass. Confused, Sherlock swiftly realised John thought he was being patronised, which was plainly ridiculous. John was an intelligent man surely he didn't need Sherlock to tell him just how invaluable his assistance had become?

"Oh, is that so?" The Prince looked from one to the other as his somewhat inebriated brain tried to keep up. "And the two of you are living together? Well, I never. I thought you were engaged to that pretty blonde, Lisa something or other?"

"Sherlock and I are just flatmates," John clarified, trying not to pay attention to the twin expressions of interest being sported by the Holmes brothers at the prospect of a long lost fiancée. "And Lisa decided to marry Bill."

"Bill Roberts?" The Prince snorted. "Woman must have lost her marbles to pick him over you. Do you know what this man did? He risked his own life to crawl out to me then he fixed up my leg in the middle of a firefight and stayed with me until the area was cleared. Without him, I would have bled to death and my idiot brother would have been one step closer to the throne. I'm amazed they didn't give him a medal."

"Oh, I do believe they tried," Mycroft offered. "But the good Doctor here seems to have the same stubborn attitude to such things as my dear brother does to knighthoods."

"You're very well informed, as usual." John spoke tightly.

To a casual observer his manner might seem merely cool, at most a little distant. But Sherlock could see the way he had unconsciously shifted his weight from 'at ease' to attack ready. How his free hand, half hidden in the folds of his jacket, clenched into a fist, those lines of fury around his eyes and the hard, determined, line of his unsmiling lips, which indicated as plain as day that a line had been crossed. The temptation to let John actually deck Mycroft lasted only long enough for Sherlock to remember how tiresome his brother could be when he was really trying.

"It all sounds very thrilling," Sherlock cut in before things could escalate. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I need another drink. Come along, John."

To be on the safe side, Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder and propelled him through the crowd towards the bar. Still holding his quietly simmering flatmate in place with one hand he used the other to signal the barman and order a round of drinks. Without a word needed between them, John picked up the neat double whiskey obviously intended for him, downed it in one and slammed it back down onto the bar.

"Well, that was a remarkable co-incidence," John was the first to break the silence, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"We both know that was no co-incidence," Sherlock shook his head. "In his usual oh-so-unsubtle manner Mycroft was trying to make a point. He thinks I care too much about my own affairs and don't sufficiently value your contribution to our arrangement and therefore has set out to prove that if I don't then there are others out there who will.

"Right," John frowned in obvious irritation. But Sherlock couldn't tell if it was at Mycroft's rather pointed manipulation or because he agreed with the sentiment. "And what do you think?"

"I think Mycroft should mind his own business," Sherlock scowled. "Are you going to take the Prince up on his offer?"

"What offer?" John frowned.

"You risked your life to save the life of one of the richest and most powerful men in England and didn't receive any official recognition. Now he returns home to find you wearing a badly fitting tuxedo, doing a part time job and living in a shared flat struggling to make ends meet. Of course, he's going to make you an offer."

Sherlock looked pointedly at John's inside pocket as his phone beeped, announcing that he had received a new text, pulling it out John clicked rapidly through to the correct screen, read the message and put the phone back in his pocket, looking out into the crowd of wealthy to do revellers he didn't meet Sherlock's gaze appearing deep in thought.

"So, what has he offered you?" Sherlock pressed, not able to manage quite his usual edge of sarcasm as he realised the Prince's generosity was likely to offer John far more than the dubious delights of 221b Baker Street. "Setting you up in practise in Harley Street? Perhaps, a Kensington Town House? Or maybe a British Racing Green Jag to get about in?"

"All three actually," John admitted. "The house sounds lovely. It's got a billiards room, a home cinema and its own swimming pool."

Sherlock's only response was to scowl furiously and take another swallow of his champagne. He knew he had acted badly over the Magistrate's court. The charges might have seemed insignificant to him, so confident had he been in his abilities to simply dismiss the problem. But John's friendship had become extremely important to him. Didn't John know that?

"I can just imagine it," John was still talking. "No body parts in the fridge, not a single chemistry experiments in the bathroom, Lestrade won't be popping around every five minutes to fill us in on yet another murder and there won't be some bloody manic playing the violin at 2am."

Sherlock froze before a small slowly smile spread across his face.

"And you'd be bored to death." He surmised.

"Yes, absolutely, I would," Watson grinned fondly at him, with that edge of teasing that only he could pull off with affection. "You idiot, you actually thought I was going to move out."

"Much as I hate to admit it," Sherlock made a face. "Mycroft wasn't entirely wrong. My lifestyle is difficult and dangerous I am hardly the easiest of persons to live with and I not likely to change my habits."

"I'm not asking you to change," John shrugged easily, understanding that was as close to an apology as Sherlock was likely ever to give. "Just buy the milk once in a while."

Sherlock considered that as he dashed off the last of his champagne with a positive flourish before returning the glass to the marble top bar. In many ways he and John Watson were complete opposites. They certainly did not always agree. But Sherlock had never met someone who was so much on his wavelength. Perhaps, Mycroft had a point when he suggested that Sherlock should be a little more proactive as far as John's welfare was concerned and think before dragging him into unnecessary danger.

"Honestly, John," He straightened up. His usual demeanour completely restored now that the issue at hand had been resolved. "What is this obsession you have with the purchase of milk? It is an entirely un-necessary component for the making of tea."

"I like milk with my tea," John shrugged, his expression darkened slightly as he caught Mycroft watching them across the room. "Although, I have to say, I don't much enjoy being manipulated by your brother."

"Agreed," Sherlock shot him a look of complete accord. "How would you like to piss Mycroft off?"

"Right now, I'd like that very much." John grinned broadly.

"Good," Sherlock grinned, a genuine, true smile. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

_As he looked down the barrel of the gun Sherlock almost wished John Watson had never been so brave nor so loyal to follow his lead without question. His only value to Moriarty was his connection to Sherlock. And Sherlock was damned if the best man he knew was going to die for his sake._


	4. Chapter 4

Strength

_Being physically or mentally strong

* * *

_

_Sherlock was routinely struck by the depth of John Watson's courage. His fearlessness under fire and his willingness to fight was something of an asset. However, it was his ability to treat the extraordinary as every day that Sherlock truly admired. He had to remember to tell him that._

_He had tried to show his appreciation.

* * *

_

"Well that was a first." John's voice observed.

Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at Watson's profile in the flickering light of passing street lamps and brightly lit London store fronts as the Taxi carried them home to 221b. The cut on John's head stood out in angry relief against his pale skin. The other man had said nothing since they had dropped a remarkably resilient, but still somewhat shaken Sarah, to spend the night with her parents. It was obvious to Sherlock that, although John's expression was neutral, his eyes glittered a little too brightly. This wasn't over yet.

"Getting kidnapped or people thinking you were me?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"I've been kidnapped before," Not for the first time John surprised him, feeling Sherlock's curious gaze upon him, he elaborated just a little. "I was bringing in a high ranking casualty when a group of insurgents took us captive at gunpoint. We were held for 72 hours before we were rescued. You got there fast."

"I was extremely well motivated." Sherlock said grimly.

Even in these circumstances, that admission warmed John somewhat as he recognised the depth of friendship inherent in that comment. Sherlock had put himself firmly in the line of fire by coming to the tunnels, not just to solve the puzzle but to save _him _from sharing the same fate as Van Coon, Lukis, and Soo Lin. John felt his stomach twist as he recalled the moment General Shan had pointed the gun at his head and actually pulled the trigger.

"How did you find us?"

"The book everyone owns. It was the London A-Z," Sherlock admitted. In hindsight, it was so obvious. Granted there were millions of books in the world but he still wished he had made the connection before. "The graffiti you found on the wall by the railway tracks identified their hideout."

"Good," John spoke without emotion. "That's good."

Sherlock ran the symptoms of clinical shock through his mind, John seemed to be holding up well, but reaction was bound to set in shortly. The man moved as if on autopilot as they pulled up at the flat and Sherlock paid off the taxi. As Sherlock opened the door to 221b his toe bumped against a white plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of a nearby Chinese takeaway that had been left propped up against the door. It was oozing sweet and sour sauce.

"What the ..?" He remarked.

To Sherlock's brain it was almost as if the following events took place in slow motion. John glanced curiously at him and then followed his line of sight to the white plastic bag. He turned sheet white, with a tinge of green, uttered a muted but extremely heart felt curse and pushed past Holmes to race up the stairs. Left behind, for once, Sherlock cast a dark look at the offending carrier bag. As he carefully picked it up and carried it inside to the kitchen. As he sat down at the kitchen table he could clearly hear the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom. After a few moments the toilet flushed and Watson came out, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Are you alright?" He asked when it seemed John wasn't going to say anything at all.

"What? Oh yeah, I'm fine," John assured him, seeming almost surprised that he had asked. "It's just reaction. It's perfectly normal, practically bound to happen."

"And people say I'm strange." Sherlock fixed him with a look.

"Like I said, it's hardly the first time anyone's held a gun on me," John dismissed that. "I was more worried about Sarah. It wasn't exactly the way I was hoping the evening would end. Who knows if she'll even want to speak to me after this?"

"Actually, I think you'll find tonight's little escape had rather enhanced her opinion of you," Sherlock pointed out. Initially, he had merely tolerated her presence for John's sake, finding it to be something of an intrusion. But her curiosity had been an asset in cracking the case and her sense of humour and her resilience in the face of danger suggested that she might be a tolerable companion for his flatmate. "When she was younger she spent some considerable time working for Doctors without borders, which rather suggests that it wasn't your prowess with the clarinet that encouraged her to accept your invitation to go on a date."

"How did you know that? Any of it? Because, I know I've never mentioned the clarinet," John blinked, only to answer his own question in the very next breath. "Oh, of course, Mycroft."

"Exactly so," Sherlock murmured. "For a man entrusted with the secrets of the British Governments his capacity for gossip is really quite remarkable."

"So, where was his little surveillance network when we actually needed them?" John asked as he reached up for the teabags.

Sherlock had rather been wondering the same thing. Although, his thoughts on the matter remained unvoiced as he watched John's hand shake violently, sending the contents of the already open box of teabags spilling across the counter top. Even from this angle he could see that that John's breathing was becoming more rapid, shallow and erratic his pale face looked clammy with sweat his fists clenched as he no doubt flashed back to one of the more unpleasant moments of his kidnapping. Sherlock rose to his feet and was at his side in moments.

"Let me." Sherlock said equably.

"It's fine," John's voice rose slightly. "I can do it."

"John."

"I said, its fine," John spun angrily around to face him. "I've already been kidnapped, tied up, threatened at gunpoint, watched a woman who isn't even officially my girlfriend yet almost be impaled with an enormous crossbow, I think I can cope with making a simple cup of tea!"

"You're going into shock," Holmes told him calmly. "I imagine you're familiar with the symptoms. It really would be much better if you sat down."

John's eyes hardened into agates as he drew himself up to make a sharp retort and for a second Sherlock saw the commanding officer who always lurked beneath the affable exterior. Then the doctor in Watson considered his words and the stiff set of his shoulders drooped slightly.

"You're right, of course, you are. I'm sorry. Sorry. I'll just sit down," John sank into a chair only to come face to face with the oozing bag of Chinese food sitting on the kitchen table. He swallowed hard as his stomach gave another traitorous lurch. "What the hell did you bring that in here for?"

"I thought it might be evidence of some kind," Sherlock replied as he took over the task of making the tea. "Given that it elicited such a curious reaction from you."

"It was supposed to be dinner." John admitted wearily.

"_That's_ how they took you without a fight," Sherlock realised, as he put two mugs on the table. He had found it curious that there were no signs of a struggle. John might not have his martial arts training but the man's army training had ensured he knew what he was about. And he would have done everything in his power to keep Sarah safe. "You ordered Chinese food and then you answered the door to them."

"I thought it had arrived pretty quickly. He said something about treasure and then he laid me out cold," Reflexively, John reached up to gingerly touch the gently throbbing cut on his temple, where his dead weight had impacted with the tiled floor of the hallway. Too late he saw Sherlock frown at the gesture. To cover John sipped at his tea, only to grimace at the over sweet taste. "How much sugar did you put in this?"

"It's good for shock," Sherlock reminded him, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course," John was quick to dismiss the concern. He offered up what he hoped passed for a reassuring smile. "They mostly just tied us up and asked us a few questions."

"If you say so."

John shook his head ruefully as Sherlock instantly lost interest in the subject and wandered off in the direction of the couch, casually picking up John's laptop up off the coffee table en route and flopping down on the couch, taking a second to power it up before he utterly lost himself in whatever he was doing. Sitting alone in the kitchen John felt his exhaustion begin to rise. He sat quietly for a minute, finishing his tea and trying to feel grateful for that small act of friendship as his various aches and pains began to make themselves known and the adrenaline began to ebb.

"Well, I guess I'll turn in then."

"Good night." Sherlock murmured politely, if a little distractedly, as he continued to focus on whatever the hell he was doing.

Alone in the bathroom, John turned on the shower and carefully eased himself out of his shirt. Even in the small mirror over the sink he could already see the dark bruises blossoming on his torso. Turning around slightly, he did his best to catch sight of his back reflected in the tiny mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet. It was mostly more bruises and red raw abrasions, but no less painful for that. The still sluggishly bleeding cuts, where the knuckle dusters had been all too effective in raking across his skin were something of a concern.

"You left out the part where they only used Sarah as leverage because they had already given you a good kicking and failed to get the answers they required." Sherlock's voice spoke up from the doorway as his eyes met John's in the mirror. "Some of those will need stitches."

John gripped the side of the sink a little tighter. He had bypassed the EMTs at the scene for a reason. The thought of waiting for hours in a brightly lit and crowded A and E did not appeal in the slightest. His head ached, his bruises throbbed, his cuts stung and as the adrenalin drained away he felt utterly and totally exhausted. All he really wanted was to have a hot shower and then go to bed.

"When you've finished your shower meet me in the kitchen." Sherlock's order held no hint of request.

In answer, John raised a brow at his own reflection in the mirror. When he finally padded back out to the kitchen, dressed only in pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown he was surprised to see that Sherlock had set a chair in the middle of the kitchen and placed an angle poise lamp on the table to improve the lighting. But what really caught his attention was the extremely professional looking suture kit laid out on the table, including sterile needles, gloves, gauze and local anaesthetic.

"I really don't want to know, do I?" He observed.

"Probably not." Sherlock smiled at him.

John grinned back, the warmth of that small exchange helping him feel only slightly self conscious as he shrugged out of the dressing gown and straddled the chair, preparing to submit to his flatmate's ministrations. Sherlock's touch was deft and professional he tended to his wounds and his touch was surprisingly gentle. Under his careful ministrations John felt his eyelids growing heavy and his head beginning to droop as the adrenalin dip caught up with him, so that when Sherlock's fingers unexpectedly brushed over his bullet wound he couldn't he couldn't help the way he stiffened as his eyes snapped open.

"Sorry. Did I hurt you?" Sherlock enquired.

"No, no, it's fine," John assured him. "Just surprised me a bit that's all."

_It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't seen the wound before. The flat wasn't that large and there was only one bathroom, which was just big enough to turn around in. It wasn't uncommon in the morning to find either man dressed solely in pyjama bottoms or even merely a towel as they passed too and from their bedrooms, often making a detour to the kitchen for a shot of much needed caffeine on the way. That first time, John had just got out of the shower and was making himself a brew when he realised he was being watched. _

"_You were shot from behind," Sherlock's voice sounded almost clinical, as he extrapolated the trajectory of the bullet from the scarring. "I wasn't expecting that."_

"_Never saw it coming." John agreed lightly, even as his mind raced with unwelcome images._

"_No, you would be too focused on your patient," At John's curious look he explained. "You were leaning forward when you were hit. But not at a table or a bed, that would be too low, more likely a stretcher, a casualty in transit."_

"_That's about the size of it." John agreed. _

_It occurred to Sherlock that he should probably say something comforting now. His flatmate's uncharacteristic detachment enough of an indication, even for him, that he was dealing with the situation by simply not dealing with it. This kind of thing really wasn't Sherlock's area. But the silence was growing longer and John was looking increasingly discomforted._

"_A wound like that would cause extensive damage," He tried. "In the circumstances, the surgeons did some exemplary work to restore such a high level of mobility."_

_At first, he thought he might have said the wrong thing. John's expression looked slightly odd and not exactly receptive. But then the other man's lips quirked with an almost fond smile as he recognised what Sherlock was trying to do._

"_That's good to know."_

"_You have a second scar on your lower back," Sherlock observed sounding almost offended that there was something about John Watson which had escaped his notice. "That one has faded somewhat, suggesting that it was some time ago. But the original wound was deep and not well cared for. Infection set in."_

"_Hygiene wasn't much of a priority for me when I was eight," John reflected. "Harry pushed me out of a tree and I landed on the handle bars of my bike. The wound needed ten stitches. I told you we'd never really got along."_

"_Mycroft and I used to duel with sabres until Mummy put a stop to it."Sherlock responded._

"_And you're really not kidding are you?" John shook his head ruefully._

As Sherlock finished his self appointed task, John wondered drowsily exactly what those Holmes Christmas dinners had really been like. Blinking hard as his eye lids began to drop he looked blearily around the flat. It looked even worse than usual. There were books over every available surface. The yellow paint covered each of the windows. The Chinese takeaway was now leaking its sweet and sour sauce into a pool which was staining the kitchen table and Mrs Hudson's tray of punch and nibbles was now piled with cotton balls soaked with his blood.

"We need to get this place cleaned up." He realised.

"It can keep."

"No, that's Mrs Hudson's jug and her bowl, she was doing us a massive favour and she'll be wanting to have those back and the windows ..."

"Will all still be there in the morning," Sherlock pointed out, as he finished up. "Can you stand?"

"Of course."

Matching words to actions John levered himself to his feet and took an unsteady step before his legs gave out under him. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had anticipated his infirmity and caught him by the arm before he could fall. John tried to be helpful as Sherlock led him up to his bedroom, but his feet seemed to have other ideas.

"Do you need a blanket?" Sherlock asked, as they entered his bedroom. "Lestrade seemed to think a blanket was important for shock. Although, I don't think we've got any red ones. Would orange be similarly effective?"

"I don't need a blanket," With a little help from Sherlock, John managed to pull back the duvet and crawl under the covers. The brushed cotton felt warm and soft against his battered body. Forcing himself back from the edge of sleep he realised that there was still something he needed to say. "Thank you, for coming after us."

"It never occurred to me to do anything else." Sherlock replied honestly.

The memory of his own stupidity, the way he had stopped to decipher the entire message on the wall, rather than returning to the flat, missing his chance to catch the kidnappers in the act, the sheer amount of time it had taken him to work out the code, it all still grated. But he knew that the thing that would haunt his memories would be the moment he had seen the yellow paint and realised that John might already be dead.

"I thought for a moment, she was going to kill me," John admitted very quietly, apparently reading his thoughts. "When she pointed the gun at my head and then pulled the trigger I honestly thought this was it. I had survived the heat and dust of Afghanistan only to meet my end in a bloody freezing tunnel in an unfashionable part of London."

"You were about to meet your end and you were worried about the Postcode?" Sherlock queried.

"It's not like anyone would actually care if I died," A mixture of blood loss, pain medication and exhaustion made John unusually candid. "Sarah barely knows me. Harry's got her head in a bottle most of the time and you wouldn't have any trouble finding another flatmate. There isn't really anyone else."

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing at all. Then he turned on his heel and put his hand on the door before he found the words he wanted. Not looking around, he cleared his throat slightly before he spoke.

"I might be able to find another flatmate. But he wouldn't be you."

* * *

The weak winter sunshine was creating dappled patterns on the floor of his room when John finally awoke the following morning. Blinking at his alarm clock he wasn't entirely surprised to see it was almost mid day. Throwing back the covers John eased himself out of bed, feeling every one of his cuts and bruises. He really needed to call Sarah and check she was alright. Then there were all those boxes and books belonging to Van Coon and Lukis still piled up all around the living room. Not to mention the spray paint would have to be cleaned off the windows before Mrs Hudson saw it. And the jug of punch and the bowls of nibbles she had so kindly provided would have to be washed up and returned, plus the kitchen was in an even worse mess than usual, having doubled as an A and E last night and the leaking Chinese food.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. He really wasn't looking forward to facing any of it. All he really felt like doing was going straight back to bed.

Tea would definitely help.

Favouring his bruises he made his way carefully down the stairs to the kitchen, yawning widely as he tried to wake up. He had marched into the kitchen and turned on the kettle before he actually took stock of his surroundings and stopped dead. Every single one of the hundreds of books which have covered every available surface had been neatly packed back up ready for collection. The yellow paint had been cleaned off both the windows, the oozing bag of Chinese take away had been disposed off, Mrs Hudson's things had been carefully emptied and washed and placed back on the clean tray. The debris on the kitchen table had been cleared away and the whole place looked neater than John had ever seen it.

"Oh." John managed.

Feeling slightly ridiculous at his inability to properly articulate his feelings John stepped into the living room. On the couch, Sherlock was fast asleep, curled up on his side in the same clothes as he had been wearing last night with a large yellow duster clutched tightly on one hand. John smiled with fond affection and went in search of a very important item.

* * *

_Sherlock had eventually woken to find himself covered with a soft red blanket. He had no idea where on earth John had found such an item but he recognised the joke as the symbol of gratitude and forgiveness the other man clearly intended. He had vowed then never to put John Watson in mortal danger again. He hoped he would get the chance to apologise for breaking that vow. _


	5. Chapter 5

AN - Finally able to fix the computer glitch and finish this. Sorry for the long wait. For those not familiar the case of the melting laptop is an unwritten entry in John Watson's blog.

* * *

_Sherlock knew that it was entirely possible they might die here tonight. However, it was far more probable that Moriatry wouldn't want the game to end so abruptly. Sherlock liked to play the game but he liked the winning far, more. Granted targeting the bomb vest was a risk but it was a calculated one._

_He could just imagine what John would say to that._

_

* * *

_

"Oh come on, it was a total gamble," John was likely to scoff. "You were betting on the fact that Moriarty wanted to live more than he needed us to die."

"As I said, it was a calculated risk," Sherlock would counter. "Gambling is just another branch of mathematics, John, determining the odds, working out the probability, as you might say, primary school stuff."

"Except you couldn't be sure Moriarty would jump the way you wanted," John would argue. "Serial killers aren't exactly known for their stable personalities. He might just as easily have called your bluff."

"That wouldn't have been possible," Sherlock dismissed the idea. "Since we all know I wasn't bluffing."

"I'm glad it didn't come to that," John's eyes got that little crinkle around them that he got when he was deadly serious about something. "The world might have been a much better place without Moriarty in it, but giving your life in return hardly seems like a fair exchange."

Sherlock paused. Some might make the mistake of assuming that John was speaking of the injustice of sacrificing his own life. But he understood that his flatmate was the type of man to die a thousand deaths rather than let an individual like Moriarty have free reign. So, the only logical conclusion was that John was actually thinking of Sherlock's own demise being the unequal exchange.

"Some would say it was poetic justice." He offered.

"You think all this is your fault," John realised, rather more astutely than Sherlock was truly comfortable about. "Because Moriarty's been doing all of these things, the taxi driver, the lost painting, all of it to draw you out. Sherlock, you do understand that you're not responsible for what he does?"

"Perhaps not entirely," Sherlock allowed. Except that, he and Moriarty were two sides of the same coin. He knew that there had been times when the thrill of solving the puzzle had meant more to him than the fate of the victims. The fact that such a realisation didn't sit well with him didn't change the fact of its existence. "But I am at least partly responsible for making him what he is. The game isn't really worth playing unless you have a worthy adversary. The more I built my reputation, the more incentive I gave him to build his empire in order to devise the prefect crime."

"And if he beat you, if he did defeat the great Sherlock Holmes, do you really think he would just stop?" John shook his head. "You're both geniuses, I'll give you that, with a streak of arrogance a mile wide and a mildly ridiculous obsession with designer labels. But that's it Sherlock. What you do _saves_ lives. You don't take them. When you get bored you experiment on a bowl of eyeballs or .. shoot a few holes in the wall. You don't go out and kill people."

"Not directly, no." Sherlock said darkly.

"Still not your fault." John didn't pretend to misunderstand him.

"Oh please. Moriarty would never have targeted you if it wasn't for your association with me," Sherlock pointed out. "Sharing the flat, assisting me with my cases, all of which brought you to his attention. And let's not forget that it was you who killed the cab driver before I could take either of those pills thus rather spoiling his fun. Without all of that he would never have even known John Watson existed."

"Yeah, well don't expect me to feel sorry about that."

Sherlock's head came up sharply, pinning the other man with his hawk like gaze. He knew John liked the thrill of the Game. That he enjoyed the danger of the chase. But he also realised that John liked it because he felt like he was helping people, catching criminals so they couldn't harm others, providing closure to loved ones, all of it making the world a slightly better place. John believed in honour and duty and dying for a cause. None of that made him a man who welcomed death.

_Please God don't let me die_

"Risking you're life to prove you're worthy, are we John?" Sherlock pointedly used the other man's own words from that first night against him.

"Moriarty targeted me _because _I'm you're friend," John explained patiently. "Because he knew you would care about what happened to me. You're not going to be able to make me feel badly about that."

"Even, if that 'caring' is the cause of your demise?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's hardly the first time I've put my life on the line." John pointed out.

"Indeed," Sherlock was at his most cutting and sarcastic. "And look how well that turned out for you."

As John averted his gaze, his expression taut with some all too well remembered pain, Sherlock realised some people might claim he had crossed a line. Although, the doctor had never shared the exact circumstances of his injury in Afghanistan with Sherlock, the psychosomatic limp, the shaking hand and the nightmares, all suggested the incident had been traumatic. John's own silence on the matter might suggest he was being modest about some heroic act of self sacrifice. However, Sherlock's observations had led him to an entirely different conclusion.

_So, Afghanistan was it?"DI Dimmock observed. "What happened to you?"_

_Sherlock didn't need to look away from his examination of the crime scene to see the flicker of resignation that passed across John's face. It was the question that everyone asked sooner or later. It seemed that as soon as they realised John Watson was a former Army doctor who had seen active service in Afghanistan they were just itching to know. Sherlock could understand their curiosity but he failed to see why the enquiry should be deemed to be socially acceptable when so many less invasive topics were considered off limits._

_"I got shot." John answered simply. _

_Even with the majority of his intellect focused on other things, Sherlock still managed a small smile at his flatmate's ingenuity. John's neutral tone was neither offended nor defensive. But his words provided information in such a manner as to deter any further requests for information. Faced with such a baldly honest response most people quickly backed off as if they regretted asking in the first place. Unfortunately, DI Dimmock was rather young and brash and a little too awestruck by the prospect of heroics to take the rather pointed hint._

_"Give you a medal, did they?" He pressed._

_"No." John replied curtly._

_"No?" Dimmock's tone clearly indicated his disbelief. "I would have thought that was pretty standard out there. You're always hearing things on the news about blokes getting some kind of award or other for bravery under fire."_

_"__That's usually for saving somebody else," John pointed out coldly. "Not for being the idiot who got shot in the first place."_

_"Oh, right," Dimmock cleared his throat as he rather obviously changed the subject. "Mr Holmes, any progress with that vase?"_

_Even as he rattled off his findings, Sherlock was watching John out of the corner of his eye. For once the other man was demonstrating none of his usual fascination with Sherlock's brilliant deductions. Instead, his eyes were hooded as if he was miles away, about 3500 miles Sherlock surmised, as he observed the thin lines of tension around John's eyes, the taut line of his jaw, his slightly shallower and more rapid breathing and the tightly clenched fist half hidden by his body. As Sherlock watched a thin line of blood trickled between white knuckles and dropped, once, twice, onto the dusty floor. Sherlock told himself that if he was even more scathing with Dimmock than usual it was only because he wanted to wrap this up as quickly as possible. _

_"Here."_

_As he stepped up behind the former soldier Sherlock deliberately kept his tone neutral, carefully telegraphing his movements. Even so, John flinched slightly, before he took a short, sharp breath and visibly forced himself to relax. Nonetheless, it was several seconds before he became sufficiently aware of his surroundings to notice the large linen handkerchief that Sherlock was holding out to him. And a beat after that before his nostrils caught the scent of blood in the air and his face grew red with embarrassment as the stinging pain in his palm made itself known._

_"Thanks."_

_Awkwardly accepting the makeshift bandage, John hastily wrapped the square of cloth around his hand, before shoving it firmly into his pocket. His swift look of gratitude indicated that he had noted the way in which Sherlock had used his own body to shield his actions from the prying eyes of those policemen and women still milling around. A quick twist of Sherlock's heel mixed the droplets of blood into the dust. Not that this part of the room was considered an actual part of the crime scene. But no point in attracting unwanted attention._

_You're wrong, you know." Sherlock told him, as soon as they were alone. _

_"Don't," John told him wearily, as he rinsed the dried blood off his hand to reveal the four crescent shaped cuts made by his own fingernails. They were deep but nothing that some antiseptic and a light dressing couldn't handle. "Just don't."_

_So, Sherlock has spared him his observations that the circumstances of his injury were irrelevant. John clearly strongly believed that being unfortunate enough to catch a stray bullet wasn't remotely laudable. Sherlock didn't see the distinction. Just because he hadn't been in the process of saving another life at that precise moment surely didn't make the slightest bit of difference to the contribution he had been making? But he was quickly learning that John Watson was a very stubborn man, who was often resistant to simple logic._

Certainly, there was no logical reason for the soft smile that graced John's features at his harsh, some might say cold, words as he made reference to the physical and metal difficulties which had followed John Watson home from Afganistan.

"Some things are worth dying for."

Sherlock felt an unaccustomed tightness in his chest as the warmth of John's fond regard spread through him. Despite what Donovan might think he was not entirely devoid of personal acquaintances but he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people whom he would count as true friends. The fact that a man as genuine as John Watson would and_ had _risked his own life for Sherlock's sake had been frankly astonishing.

"John," Sherlock hesitated "What I said before about hero's not existing, that wasn't right."

"Well, yes," John tipped his head one on side considering. "I suppose what you did tonight could be considered quite heroic."

"What?" Sherlock blinked.

"And you didn't mean you," John realised slowly. "Which is funny because from where I was standing, when you had the chance to run and save yourself, you didn't even think about leaving me behind did you?"

"You might be an idiot but your life is no less valuable than mine." Sherlock pointed out.

Sherlock watched as John averted his gaze, his lips pressed tightly together as he struggled with the feelings that welled up within him at such an overt expression of loyalty. The consulting detective had understood from their first meeting that a war hero looking for a flat share had few people he could rely upon. Joining the army had been his way of addressing that need. And everything about John Watson said he had never imagined that he could find the same level of friendship and commitment in civilian life.

_Like most people John Watson__ had his limits. Unlike most people, John Watson's limits were boundaries that Sherlock Holmes could live with. He might swear and complain about the head in the fridge but he didn't ask Sherlock to remove it. He sometimes rolled his eyes when a mug of tea was ripped out of his hand and he was forcibly shoved into his jacket and pushed out the door in pursuit of a case, but he never refused to come. In return, Sherlock did his best to observe those limits that John could not accommodate. _

"_So,do I need to search the flat?" John had asked, that very first morning at breakfast._

"_If Lestrade's eager little team of drugs busters didn't find anything, what makes you think you will?"Sherlock had wondered without bothering to look up from his paper._

"_Because my sister is an alcoholic," John reminded him. "I seriously doubt there is any hiding place in a flat this size even you can think of that she hasn't already tried."_

"_Indeed," Sherlock put aside his paper and met John's eyes, the gesture itself something of an apology. "In the past I have occasionally used drugs when the boredom became too much to cope with, but I've been clean for quite some time. I won't insult your intelligence by promising that I will never use again. But it may reassure you to know that I find company something of a distraction from my own thoughts."_

"_Good," John had smiled. "That's good to know."_

_Another area where Sherlock had swiftly learnt he needed to consider John's sensibilities was ensuring that the other man took sufficient nourishment. Sherlock himself could go for several days without food, so at first he hadn't considered it relevant when John had left meals half eaten or almost untouched n order to keep up with him on case, until halfway through the case of the melting laptop when John had quite unexpectedly turned sheet white._

"_John!"_

_Even with 99% of his attention focused on the intriguing impossibility of the spontaneously combusting computer Sherlock had still managed to cross the room in three long strides and catch his suddenly boneless flat mate before John actually hit the ground. _

"_Damn," John had blinked in embarrassment as coherence had gradually returned and he had realized his head was cushioned on Sherlock's coat and Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson all peering curiously over him. "Sorry, sorry, bit light headed."_

"_When did you last eat?" Sherlock had intoned sternly, feeling oddly protective._

"_You're seriously asking me that?" John had giggled slightly, causing his flatmate's expression to darken further, as he reached for wrist and pushed back the sleeve of his jumper, laying two cool finger's firmly across his pulse point. Feeling the blood thrum slow and weak against that light pressure John realised he was perhaps more than just a little light headed. _

"_A__nswer the question, John," Sherlock had given no ground, totally ignoring Anderson and Donovan's twin looks of incredulity at his obvious concern. "When did you last eat something?"_

"_Um," Watson hesitated, which he knew was damning enough in itself. "What day is it again?"_

_After that, Sherlock had taken care to see that John ate at regular intervals. Even in the midst of Moriarty's games the only reason they had stopped off at that greasy spoon was that Sherlock had noticed John was looking a bit grey around the gills. Watching the other man almost inhale the all day breakfast he knew he had made the right decision._

"_Feeling better?"_

"Whilst we both know you don't need me to feed your already massive ego," As ever John was refreshingly direct. "You'll forgive me if I beg to differ. The world only has one Sherlock Holmes. And I happen to think he is well worth saving. We both know that if all you cared about was the challenge of the Game, you would have taken that Russian case."

"I told you before, it was Belarus," Sherlock corrected mildly. "And that man was unequivocally guilty."

"Surely that would have to be the ultimate challenge?" John pressed. "Getting someone off scot free when all the evidence indicates that they actually committed the crime?"

"What happened after you left the flat?"

Sherlock knew that his abrupt change of subject, was as good as acknowledging that John had a valid point. Maybe he was better than Moriarty after all. It was something of a concession, but one that he was prepared to make, because if he was better than Moriarty it was because of people like John, Lestrade and even Mycroft who all seemed so determined to make him recognise his potential. So, he was slightly surprised that instead of savouring his minor victory, John's expression instantly sobered.

"Remind me to give Mycroft my condolences," He spoke grimly. "It's never an easy to lose people under your command. And those men most probably had families."

It made sense. Sherlock was well aware that Mycroft had them both under constant and fairly high level surveillance, probably as high as level three. Therefore, in order to actually kidnap John, Moriarty's people would have to have gone through Mycroft's. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder just how long his friend had been in the arch criminal's clutches. Moriarty might usually prefer not to get his own hands dirty but there was no way he would have been able to avoid the temptation of toying with John Watson.

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock was suddenly seized with an urgent need to know. "What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?"

"_Sherlock_," John repeated. "I said I was fine. I am absolutely fine."

"You'll forgive me if I have found your definition of that word to be more than a little dubious," Sherlock countered. In just the few weeks they had known each other John's versions of fine had included, killing a man, being threatened at gunpoint, being dangerously ill and strapped into a bomb. And there was no way Moriarty would have wasted such a golden opportunity to accrue some kind of advantage. "He did something, said something, tell me!"

"He'd done some research on me," John admitted. "He knew some stuff. About me and my background, he taunted me, tried to use my weaknesses, my failures against me."

"Tried to?" Sherlock prompted.

"He murdered people in cold blood, f_or fun_ Sherlock, because he was _bored_. Do you honestly think I give a damn what he thinks about either of us?" John's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Obviously not," Sherlock allowed himself a lightening fast smile at this man's really quite remarkable resilience. "I suppose then I should feel flattered that you care quite so much about me as to point out all my failings."

"I'll bet you never did get the milk," John joked. "Or the beans."

"I'll go tomorrow." Sherlock surprised himself by actually meaning it.

"Maybe, I should come with you, keep you out of trouble."

"Don't be ridicolous, John. There's no point in us both being subjected to the horrers of the supermarket and despite what you might think I am capable of transacting a simple purchase."

"Uh huh," John wasn't agreeing. "Isn't there some Chinese proverb that says if you save someone's life you become responsible for them?"

"It's a fairly widespread belief," Sherlock acknowledged.

"Could be tricky." John grinned.

"Don't blame me," Sherlock pointed out. "You started it."

"No actually," John said quietly. He knew Sherlock was referring to when he killed the cabbie. But he had something altogether different in mind. "I think you did."

John didn't elaborate. But then he really didn't need to. With no family except his estranged sister, no Army career, no decent job prospects, not even anywhere to live, they both knew how little John Watson had had to live for on his return from Afghanistan. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest that a man with his qualities would have rallied eventually. But the words would have been a lie. A man with his qualities needed a _reason _to live. John Watson liked to be appreciated. He needed to be of service. He thrived on the thrill of danger and adrenalin, but it took another (a girlfriend was always a nice option, but he had survived well enough on the camaraderie of the battlefield) to draw out his best qualities.

"Perhaps," Sherlock considered his next words carefully. "We should declare it a draw."

Sherlock liked company when he went out. He needed an assistant to help him focus his thoughts and process his findings. He thrived on the theatre of deduction but it took an audience, (appreciative was best but he would take disdainful or contemptuous if that was all there was on offer), to draw out his best work. If he hadn't found John Watson he thought he might well have gone mad. There was more than one reason his brother worried about him after all. The words hung for a moment in the silence between them. Sherlock knew John wouldn't miss the inference behind his words. But he was equally aware that there would be no attempt at false comfort. No empty reassurances. They both knew what the other was.

And what they had the potential to be together.

"And that is why you are better than him." John spoke with conviction.

* * *

_As much as it pained Sherlock to admit it, it would most lik__ely be Mycroft who saved them. He could envisage the little red dots suddenly disappearing as the snipers were taken out one by one. Moriarty would escape, of course. But at least he and John would emerge physically unharmed and he would be able to tell his friend the most important truth._

_John Watson was not his greatest weakness he was his greatest strength._


End file.
